


Living Marble

by Eione



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Dream Sex, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Other, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-27
Packaged: 2019-04-28 12:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14449491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eione/pseuds/Eione
Summary: Myrrhina is justifiably proud of her latest work, a statue of a beautiful youth. She thinks of the statue as her possession, but perhaps it's the other way around.





	Living Marble

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Morbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morbane/gifts).



> Morbane, I loved your prompts! I hope you enjoy this late treat.

The idea for the statue came to Myrrhina the day after she visited the cemetery. She took the road out beyond the city walls, her sandals stirring up puffs of dust under the hot sun. She wandered among the graves, stopping from time to time to examine a statue of a demurely robed young woman or a carved stone vase set as a memorial. She liked looking at the work of others, both new and old. Sometimes she came away with ideas of something she would like to try, or examples of a technique that she thought she could do better. From the newer monuments, she could see what was in fashion among the wealthy families—though she would ignore the fashion if she thought it was foolish.

She stopped in front of a marble gravestone with a relief depicting a young couple. The young man was dressed for travel; he clasped the woman’s hand in a gesture of farewell. His features were worn down by time, but Myrrhina admired how the unknown sculptor had arranged the draping folds in his tunic. She wondered what the young man had died of. An illness, perhaps, or lost at sea? She absently reached out and traced her fingers over his carved image.

“You over there! What are you doing?” Myrrhina turned around to see who was calling to her. It was an old man; she guessed him to be one of the caretakers of the cemetery. “Get away from the grave, woman!” He took off his wide-brimmed hat and waved it at her, as if shooing birds away from the crops.

Myrrhina barely restrained a smile. “I’m not doing any harm,” she said.

“No harm? They all say that. The witches are getting bolder, sending their servants by daylight.”

“I’m not a witch,” she told him, torn between offense and amusement. “I am Myrrhina the sculptor, daughter of Myron.”

The old man shook his hat at her again. “I’ve had enough of it! The witches come at night, or they send their maids or their slaves to steal a bit of dirt from the grave, or a bone of some past beauty to use in their spells. Then they enchant respectable men’s wives to go astray, or melt the heart of whatever beautiful youth they want . . .”

Myrrhina sighed. It would be more trouble than it was worth to stay here, with the old man ranting at her. She had never been tempted to visit a witch herself, either for love spells or to curse a rival. She liked having a good-looking man in her bed, but they always became too demanding and didn’t understand when she tossed them out so she could work. Maybe if she could carve a marble lover to her liking, and turn him back to stone when she was done with him. “Farewell, old sir,” she said, cutting off the old man’s tirade. She walked away at a leisurely pace, to show he had not frightened her. She could hear him grumbling behind her as she went.

That night she dreamed of a beautiful young man, his hair curling about his fair face, his muscles finely defined beneath his skin. He arched back at her touch, his face lit with ecstasy. When Myrrhina woke up, stretching lazily in bed, she thought she would like to sculpt him in marble.

She modelled him first in clay, and then carved him in marble: a naked youth, life-sized, standing with his weight resting on one leg and his opposite hip slightly tilted to counterbalance it. She gave him a beautiful face framed with gently curling hair, lips curved in a slight smile, and eyes of inlaid glass. His arms were both strong and graceful; she gave careful attention to his chest, the planes of his stomach, the curve of his buttocks. She used a smaller chisel to trace a line of hair down his groin to the slack phallus and testicles resting between his legs. His phallus too was beautiful, just the right size and carefully shaped. When she had completed him down to the toes, she stood back to look at him with satisfaction, then walked slowly around him to see every angle. Yes, he was truly a fine work. She had thought at first she might sell him—there was always some rich collector who wanted to add a statue of a beautiful youth to his gallery—but now she thought she couldn’t bear to part with him. She would keep him for her own.

Her satisfaction was no less in the morning. Myrrhina went into her workshop and admired again how her statue looked in the sunlight. She stroked one of the marble shoulders, pleased with how the smooth curve of it felt under her fingers.

She began preparing some clay for her next project, but she found herself glancing over at the statue again. Her eyes lingered over the musculature of the thighs, the tendons in his arm. The clay awaited her, her tools were set out neatly on her worktable, but somehow, she couldn’t concentrate.

Myrrhina looked back at her statue again. His body was perfect. She wanted to stroke him all over.

She felt a pleasant clenching at the thought. She crossed her legs and uncrossed them again. She tried to return to work, but her arousal was becoming distracting. Abruptly, she stood and went back over to her statue. She touched his cheek, running her thumb across his lips. She really had done a fine job on the face. She let her hand slide lower, reveling in the firm planes of his chest.

Yielding to temptation, she reached down to grab the statue’s well-formed phallus and gave it a stroke. Not erect of course, but hard for all that. Idly, she rubbed the heel of her hand against its length. She amused herself by imagining the statue’s smile was one of pleasure. She could almost feel his body straining eagerly under her hand, desperate for her touch but trapped in the motionless rigidity of marble.

Myrrhina felt her shoulder touch the statue. She had leaned closer without realizing it. She let herself lean against him, the hard marble of his thigh pressing between her legs. She rocked against him, feeling a sudden surge of arousal. She was still caressing his marble phallus, and she grew wetter with touching him as if she had a living body of flesh under her hands. It was a pity he couldn’t touch her. His hands moving over her skin, strong fingers sliding and rubbing between her thighs . . . Her breath coming fast, Myrrhina drew back a little to look at her statue. Well, why not? He was her own, wasn’t he? She had made him. He belonged to her; she could do anything she liked to him. Her breath quickened again at the thought.

She tucked up her robe until she was bare from the waist down and deliberately leaned against him. Her breasts were against his chest, her stomach against his, and his phallus pressed deliciously against her clit, which throbbed in response. She looked into his face again, at his smiling lips. His mouth was so beautiful. She leaned forward to kiss him, sliding her tongue against his lips. She almost expected his mouth to open, his lips to part for her. Of course that was foolish. But rubbing her tongue along his lips increased her excitement. She traced the shape of them with her tongue again and again.

There was a growing heat of arousal low in her belly. She ran her hands over his back, clutched at his buttocks. She could not resist pressing closer, spreading her legs wider. She moaned involuntarily at the first touch of his phallus against her inner folds, where she was already slick and wet. She rubbed against him, slowly at first and then faster, sliding and grinding with jerky movements of her hips. He was so hard, just where she needed it. She let herself imagine the stone phallus rising and swelling with desire, his body moving against her eagerly as she moved against him—She came with a sudden burst of pleasure, flinging her arms around his neck so as not to fall. She drew out the moment, gasping for breath and grinding against his hard phallus until the aftershocks of pleasure faded away.

She stayed limply draped against him until her legs would support her again. It wasn’t an uncomfortable position; the statue was warm, both from the sun and the heat of her body. At last Myrrhina straightened and pulled down the skirt of her robe to cover herself again with a satisfied sigh. The statue’s phallus glistened with wetness from her body, and she felt a half-guilty stirring of desire at the sight. She had claimed him, marked him as her own.

Looking at her hand, she frowned. She had scratched her finger—one of the curls at the back of his head must be too sharp. She would have to sand it down into smoothness. She pressed her bleeding finger to the statue’s mouth. “Kiss it and make it better,” she said whimsically. But of course nothing happened, except a thin line of blood across his white marble lips. She went to get a damp cloth to wipe him clean.

From that time onward, she began to have dreams—and very pleasant ones. Her statue, her marble youth, climbed into bed with her, his lips still curved in that faint smile. He slid his fingers between her thighs, working inside her, stroking and teasing her until she was wet and breathless. Then he lay down on top of her, his heavy stone weight pressing her into the bed. His erection, oddly cool and smooth, pushed into her to its full length. Then he held her down and fucked her, gripping her wrists, his marble phallus thrusting into her relentlessly until she cried out and came, trembling beneath him. Usually she fell back into a deeper sleep afterwards. Once, the dream continued long enough for her to feel smooth stone under her fingers as she lazily caressed him; the mattress bent to one side and sprang up again, and she could hear heavy footsteps walking away from her bed. But she was languorous with pleasure, too spent to move, and she did not open her eyes.

The sight of him greeted her when she entered her workshop each morning. Her statue was beautiful in the sunlight, his marble flesh almost seeming to glow. She looked at him with a proprietary air. It was hard to believe now that she had ever thought of selling him. She could easily imagine that he was smiling at her; his eyes seemed to follow her around the workshop, watching her at work as she carved marble or shaped clay.

Myrrhina frowned as she rubbed at the ring of bruises on her wrist. Had she banged her wrist against something without noticing? She was so clumsy sometimes. When she was absorbed in her work, she barely noticed where she put her feet. But she had felt more inspired lately, more easily sinking into a creative trance where she could work for hours at a time without tiring. Her statue must be good luck, she thought. When the sun set, she kept working by the light of oil lamps, until she couldn’t keep her eyes open any longer. When she finally stumbled into bed, she slept soundly.

Myrrhina was half-asleep, sunk in a pleasant dream of strong hands caressing her breasts, a hard shaft thrusting into her. It felt wonderfully sweet, and she moved to meet his thrusts, spreading her legs wider. She sighed and ran her hand along his side, finding cool stone beneath her fingers. Something seemed not quite right about that, but in her drowsy state she let it slip away again. She was slippery and wet with arousal, and she made small movements of her hips to take him in better.

She could feel her mattress under her, how it gave slightly every time he pushed into her. Her blankets were rough and prickly against her skin. A man’s body was on top of her, a heavy weight. But it was not warm skin she felt against her own skin, but smooth stone. Her dreams were never so detailed. She stirred, expecting the sensations to vanish as all dreams did upon waking. The weight on top of her remained, and his hard shaft was still thrusting into her—how long had this been going on? Myrrhina felt a sudden cold certainty that she was not dreaming. She opened her eyes.

It was her statue, her marble youth, who lay atop her. She struggled frantically, but she was trapped, pinned down by his weight. Instinctively, she put her hands to his chest and tried to push him away. It was like pushing a stone wall; he didn’t budge, and there was no sign he’d even felt it. She could see his face, the marble beautiful in the moonlight, his lips curved in a faint smile. He grabbed her hands then, pulling them up to pin them above her head, and continued fucking into her. She tugged against his grip, but in vain.

“Stop,” Myrrhina choked out. She wished at once she hadn’t spoken. The word was too loud in the nocturnal silence of the room, and it was harder to deny that she was awake, that this was truly happening. He didn’t pause, but continued thrusting into her relentlessly.

Myrrhina’s breath came in gasps, and her body jerked involuntarily as his shaft slid in and out of her wet cunt. She had been close to orgasm before, and she couldn’t help responding to what he was doing to her. Every thrust sent a spark of unwanted heat through her. Her body was clenching around him, in her most intimate places. His shaft was uncomfortably hard and heavy, bruising her as he thrust into her forcefully, but the pain mingled with the pleasure and somehow increased her arousal. She tried again to pull free, but he had the strength of stone. She let out a small squeak and instantly felt a hot rush of shame; she bit at her lip in order to hold back more undignified sounds. Her whole body was shaking now; she could tell she was close. She shook her head frantically, but his thrusting continued, driving her closer to the edge. “No,” she gasped out, “no, no, ah--!” And then she was coming in hot waves of pleasure, clenching around his hard shaft.

Myrrhina sucked in great gulps of air. She was still shaking with the aftereffects of orgasm. The statue had not paused; there was no change in the mechanical pace of his thrusts. She could do nothing to stop him, and something about her very helplessness sent a thrill of arousal shooting through her. She was still pleasurably sensitive, her cunt rippling and clenching, and she realized with dismay that she was building quickly towards another orgasm. She moaned and arched against him as she came.

It didn’t stop. Myrrhina’s skin was soaked with sweat, her cunt dripping with her arousal as hot slippery liquid welled up inside her again and again. She could no longer hold back her moans and soft cries of pleasure, shuddering as the statue continued his relentless thrusting into her wet cunt. She couldn’t reach climax again so soon, but it felt good, wonderfully, horribly good. She didn’t want it, she wished it would stop, but she couldn’t control her body’s response, the hot thrill of pleasure that went through her every time he drove into her. It went on and on; Myrrhina was desperately aroused, her body aching for release, arching and twisting beneath him. But there was no escape.

With a man of flesh and blood, it would end when he came inside her. But what if he couldn’t, she thought with growing horror. Though his smiling expression was unchanged, the statue’s thrusts were faster now, more urgent, and she thought she could feel his body straining for release. But he was made of stone, not flesh, his testicles and shaft carved from a single piece of marble. What if it wasn’t possible for him to spill his seed? Would he keep fucking her endlessly in frustrated lust? Myrrhina’s breath came in sobs. She tugged again at the hands holding her wrists, but his grip held firm. He had changed the angle of his thrusts and was pressing painfully against her clitoris, but her body responded helplessly to the unceasing stimulation and the hard shaft inside her. Sobbing, she tipped over the edge and came yet again.

It seemed to go on forever. She had lost track of time; there was nothing but his bruising grip on her wrists, his weight on top of her, and the hard phallus that drove into her sensitive flesh, forcing her open again and again. Myrrhina whimpered; she could do nothing but lie back and let him use her. Finally, the statue gave a long creaking groan; he flung his head back in ecstasy and something wet gushed into her, not hot like a man’s seed but cool and soft like wet clay. It went on impossibly long, filling her, spurting coolness against her overheated flesh. She made a small sound and shuddered through yet another orgasm.

He finally released her hands; a moment later, his phallus slid out of her. She felt his weight lift away. Myrrhina gingerly touched herself between her legs. She could feel the slickness of her arousal dripping over her fingers, running hot and slippery down her inner thighs. She was sticky and sore, but too drained to move. All her limbs felt heavy as lead. She made only a perfunctory attempt at cleaning herself with the covers. Exhausted, she curled up in a ball and was asleep before the statue’s heavy footsteps passed the threshold.

Myrrhina was unaccountably reluctant to open the door to her workshop the next morning. (A dream, she told herself. It was nothing but a particularly vivid dream. A statue couldn’t come to life, much less—the rest of it. A dream, she repeated silently as she washed the mess from her thighs, wiped away the sweat from her body. The images she recalled made her shiver, but not only with fear and horror; her clit pulsed with heat, her body responding to the echo of remembered pleasure. She firmly forced those thoughts down; she splashed her face with cold water and pulled on her clothing.) Still, she hesitated outside for a long moment before abruptly pushing the door open.

Everything was as she left it: her marble youth smiling at her, her tools in rows on her worktable, the half-completed clay models wrapped in damp cloth. She walked slowly over to her statue. She glanced downward, almost expecting him to be erect. But his marble phallus hung innocently between his legs, just as she had carved it.

Myrrhina swallowed. Only a dream, she told herself again. She turned away and made herself set to work.

It wasn’t her most productive day. More than once, she started and whirled towards the statue, sure that he had moved, only to find him exactly where he should be. She stubbornly continued working past sunset, arranging lamps to give light for her work. It wasn’t that she was avoiding going to bed, she told herself. Only that she wanted to accomplish something useful today, in spite of her jumpiness. Despite her efforts, she fell asleep at her workbench, with her head pillowed on her arms.

She was warm and sleepy, comfortably cradled. She tried to stretch but found she couldn’t move her arms or legs; tried to open her eyes, but they would not open. No matter, she was whole, enclosed in her own self. She could feel nothing but a slight pressure from the surface she was resting on. And then there were hands touching her, stroking her outer skin. It felt nice. She tried to lean towards the hands, but she could only wait.

The hands disappeared, and then she felt the tip of something cold and metal against her skin – a chisel. A blow, as hammer struck against the chisel, and part of herself was chipped away. The blows continued relentlessly. It hurt, a sharp pain with every blow, but there was pleasure too, growing as it continued. She would have moaned, but she had no lips which could open.

A larger block fell away—how strange, when she could no longer feel it as part of herself! But she had an arm now, a hand and fingers. She moved and stretched them, luxuriating in the feeling. Another arm was freed, and the rough shape of her head.

A smaller chisel was working away on her face—ah, she had eyes. She opened them. It was her statue, her beautiful youth. He was shaping her mouth now; she had lips and she could open them. She was lying on her back, stretched out on her worktable. His expression did not change as he worked on her; his face was as she had fashioned it, his lips curved in the same unchanging smile.

He bent down and kissed her, thrusting his tongue into her mouth. It made an opening, and she was able to receive him, to kiss him back and suck on his tongue. She could feel that her own mouth was dry stone, while his tongue was soft flesh, warm and wet. His hands were warm flesh too, where they touched her chest and shaped her like clay, pushing her substance upward until she had the mounds of breasts. She gasped as his fingers drew her clay up into nipples. She was panting, wanting. She moaned in protest when he drew back and sat up.

He looked down at her for a moment; not tenderly like a lover, but as sculptor would look at his work. Then his hands dug into her shapeless lower half, splitting her and tearing her into two, forcing her apart. She cried out and tried to twist away, but not enough of her body could move.

At last the tearing pain stopped. She lay trembling and gasping; she clenched her jaw, trying not to let the tears spill. He had given her the rough shape of legs; now he shaped them and smoothed them, giving her ankles and knees and feet with long toes. Her skin tingled everywhere he touched her, and again she was conscious of a growing heat and pleasure. But she wanted more, wanted it desperately, and his hands never lingered in one place long enough. Then he leaned over her, his hands resting on her inner thighs. He stroked the junction of her legs, where she was blank and featureless. It felt good, so good, but she needed more. She whimpered and rocked against his hands, trying to press against him.

Suddenly he set both thumbs against her flesh and thrust in. Her flesh gave way with a sharp burning pain, and she felt the strangeness of something inside her, an opening that had not been there before. He continued pushing his thumbs deeper into her clay without pausing. She screamed in mingled pain and pleasure as he pressed steadily inward, making the opening deeper. He was working them inside her now, deeper and fuller, every movement bringing stabs of pain and jolts of hot pleasure.

There was no escape from the hands that forced her open and filled her and shaped her. Her cries became higher in pitch as she twisted on his fingers; she came, jerking and twisting, in a wave of pleasure from the crown of her head to the soles of her feet.

She was too drained to move, weighed down with a strange lassitude. She lay limp on the worktable as he mounted her and fucked her. Again he filled her with his strange seed, the coolness of wet clay. She could feel it soaking into her from the inside, changing her and making her pliable. He withdrew, and then his hands were on her, moving her and shaping her. When he was done with her, she barely stirred as he picked her up in his arms and carried her toward his empty plinth. She could feel him adjusting her position, moving her arms and legs. Perhaps she should move away from his touch, but her limbs felt so heavy; it was hardly worth the effort. She let him arrange her as he wanted. He leaned towards her once more and kissed her, his marble lips pressing against hers. Then he drew back, and she let darkness take her.

When her friends finally came looking for Myrrhina the sculptor, they found no trace of her. Only her workshop full of half-finished clay statues, dried up and crumbling. In the center, there was a marble statue of two lovers, a young man and a young woman standing entwined, his arms wrapped around her and holding her close. She was leaning back in his arms, looking into his eyes, and her face showed an odd blend of terror and ecstasy.


End file.
